Contradictions and Compromise
by WallofIllusion
Summary: Pastfic. As Stein is recovering from a self-inflicted surgery that left him almost dead, Lord Death visits to find out what, if anything, can be said to help the boy's outlook on life.


They wouldn't give him any more painkillers. It was true that he was not in serious pain any longer, but if they cut him off then he would lose his convenient excuse. In the days since the extraction (which had been—what? A success? A horrific, mortifying failure? He never dwelt on it long enough to decide), he'd insisted that his head was always too muddled, either by the painkillers or the pain itself. Now he'd lost his ability to procrastinate.

He knew the conversation would have to happen sometime. He had no intention of avoiding it forever, and if he'd received Spirit's message as planned he would have gone in and dutifully received the scolding he had coming for his truancy. But now, surely, it could wait. It could wait until he was taking solid food again, until he was out of the nurse's office, until his hair had grown back. Maybe even until the incision on the back of his neck had become a scar—but not now, he thought desperately as he heard the door swing open and the nurse said _Yes, he's awake—would you like to see him?_; not now, not _now_—

**x**

Death thanked the nurse and pulled back the curtains surrounding Stein's bed. The boy rolled to face away. Unoffended, Death took a seat on a nearby stool. Stein must have realized that turning away gave Death a good view of his wound, because in a moment he hid it with a self-conscious hand.

Death remained silent, glancing around the room, admiring the view out Stein's window. He tried to avoid examining Stein too pointedly, but it was difficult. When Stein had arrived at the DWMA, he had seemed to Death mysteriously adult—only eleven but already grown-up, already a scientist. The coldness in his eyes said that Death and the order and society that Death had spent centuries building were nothing more than an experiment to him. Not one he cared much about, either. But now, six years later, that impression was reversed; now Stein was like a sulking little boy whose day hadn't gone as planned.

Finally, his voice drifted over in a resentful mumble. "What do you want from me?" He made no effort to turn back towards Death, only curled in on himself.

Death said, "I've just come to see how you're doing. I was worried about you."

"If I'd died, would you have been relieved?"

"Of course not, Ste—"

"You should have been. One less dangerous, irregular element to worry about—"

"Stein." Death put his hand on Stein's shoulder, but when the boy flinched, he pulled back again. "I don't want you to say things like that about yourself. You haven't even been that bad lately, have you? Sid says you've been fine."

"Sid doesn't know what I dream about."

Death couldn't see it, but he could hear the smirk in Stein's voice. He was being provoking and he knew it. "Are you going to tell me?"

"Dissecting." This first word, Stein tossed out casually, but as he continued to speak, his voice rose in agitation. "Sometimes random, faceless victims, but usually people I know. Usually people who think I'm their friend. Spirit, still, more often than not. Or sometimes his bitch of a wife, or Sid or Neigus or—" He caught his breath sharply and didn't finish his sentence.

Suspecting the answer, Death prompted, "Or?"

Stein hesitated a moment more, then rolled over languidly to look at Death. There was a helpless, breathless awe in his face. "You," he said, "and in the dream I know I was the one who killed you and I don't give a damn, I just want to—to know everything you won't let me—usually when I wake up I catch a rat or something to take apart, but when it's you I don't want to distract myself, don't want to forget…"

He looked feverish, ill, but he wasn't asking for comfort just yet. He spoke again, his voice trembling. "You should want me dead. I don't belong in your order. I don't fit and I don't want to, I'm a threat to what you stand for—"

"I don't want you dead," Death interrupted calmly.

"Even if I do this?" Suddenly Stein's right hand shot out and grabbed at Death's mask, his fingers slipping into the eye holes almost accidentally. He glared, daring Death to respond; Death only stared back. Stein's face twisted and his hand shook. His wavelength crackled in his palm against the ceramic of the mask, hot and sharp like electricity. There was a screaming contradiction in Death's head, _protect_ trying to silence _fix_ and _control_ and _eliminate_—

And then Stein shuddered and pulled away, his left hand reaching for something from the table on the far side of the bed: a plastic basin, vaguely bean-shaped and a horrid puce color. Stein vomited into it. When he finished, he held it awkwardly in his lap and kept his eyes down as if that would prevent Death from seeing the flush creeping up his face.

Death stood and carefully took the basin from Stein's hands. He nodded towards the sink at the other end of the room. "…Can I empty this over there?"

Stein nodded, still not looking up, and Death went to take care of that. As he rinsed the basin, he sent a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. Stein was wincing and rubbing the back of his neck—but he must have sensed Death's gaze because he looked up suddenly, glaring. Death turned back to his task, tapping the basin on the sink to shake off a few drops of water. There were paper cups on the counter. "Would you like some water?"

He interpreted Stein's silence to mean _Yes, but I'm not going to ask for it_. So he filled one of the cups and brought both the cup and the basin back to the bed. Without a word, Stein took a sip of the water, sloshed it around in his mouth, and spit it into the basin. He handed the basin back to Death, who once again went to empty it in the sink. As he turned on the water, Stein spoke, forlornly.

"It's been a long time since I reacted that strongly…"

"To what?" Death asked. He sat back down by the bed.

Stein shrugged and ran his fingers along the edge of his bed sheets. "The presence of order. Or my own attempt to break out of it. One of the two, it doesn't matter which." He kept his eyes down, but Death could see that he'd begun to shake.

"Are you all right?"

Almost inaudibly, Stein said, "I hate you."

There was misery in his voice, and fear. Death sighed, resisting the urge to pat Stein on the back because he wouldn't appreciate it. "That's perfectly fine."

Now Stein dared to look at him out of the corners of his eyes. It was pretty clear, from his expression, that he thought Death was insane.

Death continued, "But if it's me you hate, could you please stop trying to destroy yourself? It worries me."

"I wasn't—" Now Stein looked him full in the face, and he seemed offended. "I wasn't trying to kill myself! That wasn't the point at all!"

"That isn't what I said, is it?"

"Don't play with words. Destroy myself, kill myself, they're the same thing."

"You think so? I wonder." Death twiddled his thumbs. "Tell me what you were trying to do, then."

Stein sat up straight and jutted his chin out. "I had to stop those dreams. The brain stem controls REM sleep, so all I had to do was cut a piece of it out."

"I've never heard of such a procedure."

"I made it up." His eyes were defiant, proud, not a little hateful. "And it worked, too, so don't try to tell me I didn't know what I was doing."

"I would never doubt that." Stein had poked around in Spirit's body for five years without physically harming him; clearly, he was a capable surgeon. "I just kinda wonder how wise it is to attempt experimental brain surgery on yourself in the kitchen of a run-down apartment without letting anyone know what you're up to."

Stein was silent and sullen for a moment. Then: "My kitchen's sanitized."

"That isn't what I'm asking you." Death's voice was still light, but it had a no-nonsense edge to it now. "What you did was risky, Stein, and I know you're smart enough to have realized those risks. Why didn't you do anything to prevent them?"

"I just miscalculated."

"You were very careless."

"Fine! Call it whatever you want." Stein threw his hands up in a shrug. "What's your point?"

"Carelessness is unacceptable in surgery, isn't it? Especially something as delicate brain surgery. Am I wrong?"

"Your _point_," Stein repeated, raising his voice slightly.

"Why weren't you more careful, Stein? Didn't you care enough to make sure you survived?"

"Wh…" Stein's face twisted in disbelief and unease. Death wondered if he was aware how pale he'd suddenly gotten. "What are you trying to do, convince me that I'm suicidal or something? I'm not. I don't want to die. I was just—trying—trying to straighten myself out, trying to fix—I _had_ to get rid of those dreams, and it had to be fast, soon, _brutal_—" Stein stopped suddenly. By the look on his face, he hadn't expected that word to come out.

It was probably unnecessary, but Death prompted, "Why 'brutal'?"

Stein's eyes narrowed as he thought; he was slow to answer. "I wanted to… I had to show… that I knew how wrong I was. That I was willing to get rid of that part of me, no matter what it took…" He turned his eyes towards Death, and fear and confusion made him look vulnerable. As if asking an unspoken question, he tilted his head slightly.

Death nodded in confirmation. "That's what I mean by destroying yourself," he said quietly.

Stein looked at him for a moment longer, then shook his head back and forth and buried his face in his hands. "You don't make any _sense_," he said, sounding almost like he was whining. "I'm trying—I'm doing my best—to stop being me and be something that works in this world, and now you tell me you don't want me to do that. Make up your damn mind. Tell me what you want from me."

"I don't want you to throw yourself to your own death, metaphorically or literally, in the process of trying to make yourself more palatable to society."

Stein laughed under his breath, shoulders twitching. "That's not an answer."

But Death wasn't sure he had any answer for Stein beyond that.

Death believed in order. This was something he could not change—and for some time there had been no reason to even think of doing so. People followed the rules. Those who didn't careened with black-and-white clarity in the opposite direction, sinning deliberately and gleefully and getting killed for it.

But here was Stein who held himself back, Stein who had almost died of an attempt to conform. Order would never be able to save him. The experiment—Stein's, Death's, their joint experiment—had failed because trying to teach Stein order only split him in two and drove him madder. It left Death feeling powerless. And it turned what should have been empathy into pity, pure, inactive pity that he didn't like to feel. He gave a long, quiet sigh.

"Stein," he said, "what do _you_ want to do next?"

Again, Stein gave a shuffling laugh behind his hands. "Don't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because any answer I could give would be wrong, tainted too much by how I am to be valid. I _can't_ make the right decision. I can't stop wanting to be what I am."

Death nodded in understanding. "But you know, nothing _I_ can say will change that either. If I try to demand your loyalty, all that's going to happen is you'll just hate me more. Whether you want to follow me and stifle the worst of what you are on your own will or not, it has to be your choice."

Stein slowly lowered his hands to his lap and stared down at them.

"If I choose 'not'?"

"What do you mean?"

"If I leave your order. If I stop letting it control me."

"You're welcome to do so. However…"

Stein froze as if bracing himself. Death spoke with a quiet, unassailable authority, the usual playful tone gone from his voice.

"If you kill," he said, "or if you hurt others—if you become a threat—I will have you hunted and, if necessary, killed. I may mourn or wonder what I could have done to stop you, but I will not hesitate. Do you understand?"

Stein gave a shaky nod. "Offering me the choice doesn't exempt me from its consequences."

"Good." Death's voice began to return to normal already. To be honest, he didn't even like contemplating such a pessimistic prospect, but the situation was too serious and the threat that Stein could become all too real for him to beat around the bush as he was wont to do.

"My turn."

Death looked at Stein in surprise. There was a tortured look on the boy's face.

"Do _you_ understand, Lord Death? Do you know what you're asking of me? You're telling me to choose between crawling into a cage of my own volition and spending the rest of my life as a hunted criminal."

Death's shoulders sagged. He wanted to deny Stein's words—to insist that that was most thoroughly not his intention—but at the desperation in Stein's eyes he knew that the boy was neither exaggerating what he felt nor accusing Death of anything. That was simply what he saw before him. So instead Death said, "I'm sorry. I wish there were another option I could offer you."

Stein's face crumpled and he released the breath he had been holding. Again he dropped his eyes to his lap and fiddled with the sheets, pulling them tight between his hands. He pulled too hard and they ripped; Death saw him wince.

After a moment more, Stein looked up at Death. His eyes were resolute and wistful and afraid. "I want to leave."

A chill went through Death and his mind raced forward—first with the fierce temptation to revoke the proffered choice, then with calculations, how he could perhaps win Stein back and, if he couldn't, how long it would take before he became a real, undeniable, unstoppable threat—

All this as Stein was taking a breath, and then he spoke again: "Not permanently. I just need to get away from here for a little while. I need to find somewhere to make sure I'm thinking my own thoughts. Maybe I'll be back. Is that okay?"

Death held back a deep sigh of relief. His mind calmed again and the feeling of everything falling from his grasp faded. "That's fine. Take as long as you need."

**x**

Death had learned, many centuries ago, that oppressive control was no way to preserve order. Hold anything with a soul too tightly and it inevitably tried to burst out of one's hands. It was healthier to let children wander and make mistakes and grow into their own beings.

He knew this, but when things weren't exactly perfect, when events seemed unpredictable and maybe dangerous, he still had to fight the urge to wield the full extent of his power over his charges. When Stein healed and disappeared from Death City, Death had to remember to breathe and trust. Stein had said he would do this. Stein had said he'd be back. Probably.

Understandably, Spirit was concerned about his former partner, if a little awkward in showing it. Explaining to the young scythe when he burst into the Death Room helped Death keep things in perspective, too.

"He needs space. Forcing him to think the way most people think only hurts him, so he has to have time to look at things in his own way."

"But his way—" Spirit gritted his teeth. He clearly hadn't forgotten the revelation that Stein had spent years using him as a test subject. "He—his way's _wrong_!"

Death patted his head. "Not… unchangeably so, I think."

"Since when does he want to change?" Spirit crossed his arms. "_He_ thinks he's just fine."

"You think so?" Death rebuked gently. Spirit looked away, a pout on his face. "I think he's always known that he has to change. You may be right that he doesn't always want to, but that's what he's trying to figure out right now."

Spirit fiddled with his shirt sleeves. "But what if… what if he decides he _doesn't_ want to?"

"Then we might… have a little bit of a problem," Death confessed. There was no way to sugar-coat it.

The look of horror on Spirit's face made him marvel at the weapon-meister bond, and for now he chose to dwell on that rather than the possibility of said problem.

**x**

Almost three months after he'd left, Stein returned. He crept into the Death Room in the dead of night, without permission but not afraid of retribution, and stood in front of Death's mirror. Death tilted his head to the side. "Well, hey there, Stein. Welcome back. How've you been?"

He looked tired. There were bags under his eyes, and he didn't seem to be able to manage a full smile. Of course, those facts were a bit hard to notice in comparison to the giant screw stuck through his head, just behind his ears. He inclined his head politely.

"I've been… all right. I've spent these past few months… thinking about a lot of things…"

He straightened, but didn't look Death in the eye. Instead he reached up with his left hand and began to turn the screw. It made a slow, grating sound, and then clicked into place. "I heard about Spirit."

"Oh, did you?"

One week ago, Spirit and his wife had fought a witch who'd been wreaking havoc on an island in the Mediterranean, and won. Spirit was a Deathscythe now.

"You may pass on my congratulations if you wish. I don't intend to see him."

There was something strange in his voice, something cold and shielded. Death peered closely at him. "Stein…"

"I didn't take it well," Stein answered, as if Death had found the words to ask for an explanation. He began cranking the screw again. It clicked, but he kept turning it. "I hated him for leaving me, her for taking him, but I couldn't deny or forget that that was my fault, and I…" He shook his head carefully, nervously, and then indicated the screw with a lean finger. "This could have killed me. And it serves no practical purpose, but I had to do something. Something drastic. I couldn't make myself stop."

He seemed to shrink. Death realized what he was saying, and a painful relief flowed through him.

Stein made himself look Death in the eye. "Once I graduate, I'm moving away. I'm going to go somewhere else for college. Death City stifles me. Being under your control does, too, but I can't control myself well enough to go without it. …I'm back, Lord Death. I'm yours."

All Death could do was nod. "Thank you," he said, because he really was grateful. But Stein only shrugged the thanks away and gave a mirthless smile. This option, this compromise that they'd chosen, was hardly worth calling a solution, but for now it would work. For now, this is what they would be.

* * *

I suppose I should mention: I'm aware that while the brain stem does, in fact, control REM sleep, cutting out a part of the brain stem would probably not actually make you stop dreaming and would be a bad idea besides. But this is Soul Eater Land and the surgeon is Stein. I humbly request that you cut me some slack.


End file.
